


Deductive Wizardry

by Riza



Category: Sherlock (TV), Young Wizards - Diane Duane
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-23
Updated: 2012-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-30 00:02:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/325572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riza/pseuds/Riza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock are wizards, solving crimes and fighting the Lone One in all Its forms across planets and galaxies.</p><p>Sherlock/Young Wizards fusion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This idea would not leave me alone, especially since Diane Duane has been posting more Sherlock stuff on her tumblr. Finally I had to write it.
> 
> Sherlock took the oath when he was ten and John took it when he was twelve.  
> Lestrade is the area Senior.  
> Mrs. Hudson is not a wizard, but she is privy to the world of wizardry, much like Millman in the books.  
> Mycroft is the same way. Sherlock wasn't able to hide it from him when he was a kid-- his brother figured it out like -that-. *snaps fingers* But Mycroft was too lazy to want to be a wizard and contented himself with a government job.  
> John's manual is a book, Sherlock's is his phone.
> 
> This isn't set during any particular time. This is a fusion, not a crossover. John and Sherlock have known each other for a little while longer than they have in the series-- enough to build up a partnership-- but they have not met Moriarty yet.
> 
> Beta'd by my friend Heemyung, Harvard student and mathmagician extraordinaire.

Rain splattered down onto the grubby pavement, forming puddles with an oily sheen to them in the streets. The wind tore at the umbrellas of commuters making their way down the sidewalks and dashed rain into the faces of those unfortunate enough to have been caught in the storm without any sort of protection. There was not a single dry soul on the streets of London that day.

Except for two men, striding forward without any sort of shelter, remaining completely dry as the rain parted around them. John was vaguely grateful that most people couldn't be bothered to look up from their own preoccupations to notice this bizarre meteorological behavior. As Sherlock so often reminded him, it was rare enough for people to look away from themselves, let alone to see and observe anything of importance.

“Come _on_ , John-- there's a delightful murder waiting for us just down the street and you're _still_ preoccupied with the weather?”

“Right, because murder is such a delightful thing to look forward to,” John muttered, and sped up.

Sometimes he couldn't understand why Sherlock had even taken the Oath in the first place. It seemed so contrary to his very nature. The Wizard's Oath was all about working towards the betterment of the universe, towards someone other than yourself-- and according to Sherlock, caring about anyone other than Sherlock was something he did not excel at. John, of course, knew otherwise. He'd seen how Sherlock behaved around Mrs. Hudson, around Irene Adler (now _there_ was a wizard he wouldn't want to encounter again)-- hell, he'd seen how Sherlock's behavior had changed after hanging around with John himself for a few months.

Wizardry hadn't come easy to him, but come it had, and damned if Sherlock Holmes wasn't one of the most powerful wizards John had ever seen. He'd asked Lestrade about it once, why Sherlock of all people still had such a high power level for someone his age. Normally it was only kids, young kids, that had any sort of that level. Greg had chuckled, and asked John if Sherlock didn't remind him of a kid at some points. John had opened his mouth, and shut it again, thinking of all the times he'd had to rein Sherlock in for some reason or another. There had been that time during the banker case, when Sherlock had lain on the sofa for hours in a sulk for some reason or another. He vividly remembered the time they had once attempted to play Cluedo-- _that_ had been a disaster. And of course there was Mycroft. The list went on. But it was precisely those childish traits-- the stubbornness, the determination that the world _would work_ the way he wanted it to, dammit-- that was what made kids, and Sherlock, such powerful wizards. They simply had no knowledge of any limits, no boundaries to speak of, and the Powers responded accordingly. John had seen Sherlock dissolve sentient creatures, putting out power equivalent to a small nova, and barely break a sweat.

John was no slouch himself, but his skill lay more in the “power-source” and “building” areas. He preferred to work from the ground up, working to build or take apart spells, and feeding power to them-- or Sherlock, who was much better at expending great amounts of energy all at once instead of gradually over time like John. And he was definitely the more reliable partner. He would come prepared, with multiple memorized spells in his head, ready to provide back-up, to a fight, while Sherlock would charge in, barely able to contain his excitement, and immediately attempt to get himself killed as often and as painfully as possible before John was able to come in and contain the situation.

But it was _fun_ , it was amazing, and they both knew it. Helping to save a world-- or _the_ world-- every week, sometimes twice a week? It spoke to John the way being a doctor did. He had been out of the solar system and the galaxy and (on one memorable occasion) out of the known universe and had seen creatures he could barely comprehend, all in the name of the One, and the Powers, and the people he knew and loved. Who wouldn't change it?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References ahoy!

This body, though...this one was different.

John had never seen anything like it before. There was the feeling in the air of a wizardry recently worked-- the sense that the world had been fundamentally changed in order to suit someone else's needs. Ordinarily this was not a bad thing. In fact, John had always found it to be rather welcoming. It was nice to know that there had been another wizard there recently, making the universe a better place. And yes, sometimes spells did result in something or someone dying, regrettable as that was. But for a body to be carelessly left here, the result of a spell gone wrong (or worse, gone right)?

This was bad. This was very, very bad.

He glanced at Lestrade. The D.I.'s brow was furrowed, and the same thoughts that were going through John's face were written all over Lestrade's face.

Sherlock, of course, was paying no heed to any of this. Overjoyed that he had a new body to look at, he was running at full speed, examining each and every minute detail and filing it away in the corners of his mind, occasionally pausing to note something in his manual or to mutter a few words in the Speech. A wizardly “chain” was forming in his hands as he worked: a linked matrix of characters and phrases, too fine for John to make out any of them.

“I'm glad someone's enjoying this,” said Lestrade with a slightly exasperated air. “Seriously, what does he get out of all this? Surely it can't be that fascinating for him. Haven't the murders been interesting enough recently?” He made a face. “God, I can't believe I just said that. Jesus. It's been a long week.”

John chuckled a bit. “I know what you mean. It's good for him to get out like this, though. He's been cooped up in the flat for far too long, and Mrs. Hudson draws the line at experiments in wizardry. Bad enough that she has to deal with chemical burns, she says-- the next time a velociraptor appears in the living room she's threatened to evict us.”

“It wasn't a velociraptor, it was a pterodactyl, and anyway I got rid of it before it broke another window.”

“Putting it in Anderson's parlor does not constitute 'getting rid of it', Sherlock.”

“I got it out of the flat, didn't I? It's not my fault he thought he was hallucinating. I told him to cut back on the gin before his wife noticed, but he didn't listen.”

Greg looked alarmed. “Gin use? When has Anderson been drinking?”

“Since he found out his wife's been looking for a new flat. Apparently she's been suspecting him and Donovan for some time, and the fact that Sally left her skirt under the bed confirmed them.” Sherlock snapped his manual shut. “Don't worry, he's not going to start showing up to scenes drunk, he's restricting his imbibing solely to the weekends.” He snorted. “Not that his behavior would change much anyway...”

Lestrade sighed. “I brought you here so you could find what that my best technicians missed, not to snipe at Anderson behind his back. What did you find?”

Sherlock smiled, and let the matrix wizardry dangle from his hands. “This, right here, is the victim. Everything in this is what he was doing when he died-- his actions, who was near him, the weather, even some of his less complex emotions.” He shook it out so they could see precisely how intricate and elegant the structure was: layers upon layers of phrasing and structure. It reminded John a little of a whalesark, though admittedly smaller and less colorful.

“You made all of this, just now? That's _fantastic_.”

Sherlock's mouth quirked up at the corners.

“Sorry. Go on?”

“See this phrase, here?” Sherlok pointed to a knot in the chain. “This is when he died. You can see, near it, that there was a wizardry enacted shortly before. Of course, we knew that already-- any competent wizard could walk into this room and figure that out. But whoever killed him was extraordinary. He left-- almost a calling card, one could call it. A signature. He was proud of this murder, and the fact that he got away with it.” He murmured something, and John saw a phrase in the chain begin to glow.

 _Come and play, boys. -JM_

“In any case, this man was killed by a spell. If you want to examine precisely how this spell works, I've left it worked into the matrix so you can take it apart. In the meantime, John and I are going to do some research.”

 _And by “John and I”, he means me, of course..._

Sherlock tossed the wizardry towards Lestrade, who caught it gently.

“Sherlock, are you sure you want to give this to us? It's...pretty impressive, I have to admit.”

“Keep it,” Sherlock replied dismissively, dropping a transport circle on the ground. “I can make another one. Let's go, John.”

John glanced at Lestrade. “Do you mind?”

The Senior waved a hand. “Go ahead. This'll keep my people occupied for days, and I've got to figure out how to file my report without mentioning magic anywhere...” He rubbed a hand over his face. “This is going to be a hell of a case.”

John nodded sympathetically and stepped into the transport circle.

With a bang of imploding air, the two vanished.


	3. Chapter 3

“You just can't resist a chance to show off, can you?” John grumbled, and made a beeline for the kitchen, where the prospect of a nice cup of tea waited for him. “You're like an overgrown child, except I don't think most kids would be quite this excited over a dead body.”

Sherlock ignored him, engrossed a three-dimensional model of the body that beamed out from his phone. John sighed, filled the kettle with water, got out a packet of Earl Grey, and said a few quick words to make the water boil. He left the tea to steep and went back into the living room to pick up the stray papers that had blown off the table in the wake of displaced air that resulted from Sherlock's favorite beam-me-up-Scotty spell. “You misjudged the coordinates again,” he said to Sherlock's back. “If you keep being this sloppy, one of these days we're going to end up _in_ the table instead of on top of it.” Which probably wasn't that much worse, he reflected, looking down at the papers in his hand that were covered in shoe prints.

Sherlock ignored him and talked to his phone. “Yes, okay, I know that it was a wizardry that caused his death, thank you, I need to know what kind.”

“Arguing with the One again, are we?”

The detective threw him a dirty look. “Not arguing. Persuading.”

John raised an eyebrow. “That's persuading? Thank God you never became a lawyer, then.” He placed the papers in a neat pile on the table and went back to the kitchen to check on the tea.

“Too much reading and talking, not enough doing.” Sherlock squinted at the body. “There! Oh, he's good. Look at that spell! He even made it so that non-wizards see just a gunshot wound to the body. He thought of everything.”

John looked over at him. Sherlock's voice was taking on that tone that he knew very well. He had heard it far too often for his taste, and it usually preceded the two of them running from something that wanted to kill them in creative ways.

“This is getting rather fun, isn't it?” Sherlock grinned.

“Yes. Fun. Precisely the word I was looking for.” He gave his mug of tea an exasperated look-- dear God, what was that white thing floating in it? He spat his tea across the table in disgust.

“Sherlock, did you leave _bones_ in my bloody mug?!”

When he looked up, Sherlock's face was a study in complete neutrality. “I may have placed them there in order to keep Lestrade from confiscating them.”

“Sherlock, he's _supposed to confiscate them_. They're police evidence! Jesus Christ, would it trouble you to take the time to get a simple claudication pocket? You can store all the crap you want in there! Just keep it away from my tea!”

“Boring,” Sherlock said calmly. “It would take time away from important business. And you should know by now to be more careful when utilizing things in this flat.”

“Fine. _You_ get to clean this up then. I'm going to go brush my teeth, and go to bed. It's too late to have to deal with body parts in my drink.” John tossed a napkin at him and stomped upstairs to the bathroom.

Sherlock ignored the napkin and sat, perched on the back of an armchair, to think. Steepling his fingers under his chin, he listened carefully to his thoughts as they raced through his head.

There were two possibilities as to who, or what, JM was. The first was that he was a rogue wizard: a wizard who started off in the service of Life, for Life's name and Life's sake, but through his own actions and the actions of the One Who Fell became a worker for the darkness. The second was that JM was the Lone Power Itself, in an earthly avatar. Sherlock had encountered the Lone One many times during his work as a wizard-- he was easily powerful enough for It to have a personal vendetta against him. (And frankly, he was proud that he'd lasted as long as he had-- the risk of being young and powerful and having the Lone One trying to kill you over and over was that more often than not, It succeeded.)

But something about this whole situation made Sherlock think that the first possibility was the more likely one. The audacity of leaving a body in the middle of the street, leaking wizardry, and positively _bragging_ about it in a way that only he could have picked up on? It spoke of pride, and a perverted interest in Sherlock. Not the wizardly part of him-- the consulting detective part, the part that solved crimes for a living. And while the Lone One was certainly proud-- dangerously proud-- It was more interesting in getting rid of Sherlock-the-wizard rather than Sherlock-the-human. 

_John?_

He got a mental impression of flannel pajamas and vague sleepiness.

_What?_

Sherlock took a moment to debate the relative pros and cons of having John with him when he went out. True, it was good to have a power source, and he did his best work when John was near. And frankly, it was just nice having John around-- though he'd never admit that to anyone other than his own private thoughts. But John was tired, and would probably be irritated if Sherlock interrupted his nighttime ritual to go look for a murderer.  
 _  
Never mind. I'm going out._

_Enjoy yourself. Here if you need me._


	4. Chapter 4

“You just can't resist a chance to show off, can you?” John grumbled, and made a beeline for the kitchen, where the prospect of a nice cup of tea waited for him. “You're like an overgrown child, except I don't think most kids would be quite this excited over a dead body.”

Sherlock ignored him, engrossed a three-dimensional model of the body that beamed out from his phone. John sighed, filled the kettle with water, got out a packet of Earl Grey, and said a few quick words to make the water boil. He left the tea to steep and went back into the living room to pick up the stray papers that had blown off the table in the wake of displaced air that resulted from Sherlock's favorite beam-me-up-Scotty spell. “You misjudged the coordinates again,” he said to Sherlock's back. “If you keep being this sloppy, one of these days we're going to end up _in_ the table instead of on top of it.” Which probably wasn't that much worse, he reflected, looking down at the papers in his hand that were covered in shoe prints.

Sherlock ignored him and talked to his phone. “Yes, okay, I know that it was a wizardry that caused his death, thank you, I need to know what kind.”

“Arguing with the One again, are we?”

The detective threw him a dirty look. “Not arguing. Persuading.”

John raised an eyebrow. “That's persuading? Thank God you never became a lawyer, then.” He placed the papers in a neat pile on the table and went back to the kitchen to check on the tea.

“Too much reading and talking, not enough doing.” Sherlock squinted at the body. “There! Oh, he's good. Look at that spell! He even made it so that non-wizards see just a gunshot wound to the body. He thought of everything.”

John looked over at him. Sherlock's voice was taking on that tone that he knew very well. He had heard it far too often for his taste, and it usually preceded the two of them running from something that wanted to kill them in creative ways.

“This is getting rather fun, isn't it?” Sherlock grinned.

“Yes. Fun. Precisely the word I was looking for.” He gave his mug of tea an exasperated look-- dear God, what was that white thing floating in it? He spat his tea across the table in disgust.

“Sherlock, did you leave _bones_ in my bloody mug?!”

When he looked up, Sherlock's face was a study in complete neutrality. “I may have placed them there in order to keep Lestrade from confiscating them.”

“Sherlock, he's _supposed to confiscate them_. They're police evidence! Jesus Christ, would it trouble you to take the time to get a simple claudication pocket? You can store all the crap you want in there! Just keep it away from my tea!”

“Boring,” Sherlock said calmly. “It would take time away from important business. And you should know by now to be more careful when utilizing things in this flat.”

“Fine. _You_ get to clean this up then. I'm going to go brush my teeth, and go to bed. It's too late to have to deal with body parts in my drink.” John tossed a napkin at him and stomped upstairs to the bathroom.

Sherlock ignored the napkin and sat, perched on the back of an armchair, to think. Steepling his fingers under his chin, he listened carefully to his thoughts as they raced through his head.

There were two possibilities as to who, or what, JM was. The first was that he was a rogue wizard: a wizard who started off in the service of Life, for Life's name and Life's sake, but through his own actions and the actions of the One Who Fell became a worker for the darkness. The second was that JM was the Lone Power Itself, in an earthly avatar. Sherlock had encountered the Lone One many times during his work as a wizard-- he was easily powerful enough for It to have a personal vendetta against him. (And frankly, he was proud that he'd lasted as long as he had-- the risk of being young and powerful and having the Lone One trying to kill you over and over was that more often than not, It succeeded.)

But something about this whole situation made Sherlock think that the first possibility was the more likely one. The audacity of leaving a body in the middle of the street, leaking wizardry, and positively _bragging_ about it in a way that only he could have picked up on? It spoke of pride, and a perverted interest in Sherlock. Not the wizardly part of him-- the consulting detective part, the part that solved crimes for a living. And while the Lone One was certainly proud-- dangerously proud-- It was more interesting in getting rid of Sherlock-the-wizard rather than Sherlock-the-human. 

_John?_

He got a mental impression of flannel pajamas and vague sleepiness.

_What?_

Sherlock took a moment to debate the relative pros and cons of having John with him when he went out. True, it was good to have a power source, and he did his best work when John was near. And frankly, it was just nice having John around-- though he'd never admit that to anyone other than his own private thoughts. But John was tired, and would probably be irritated if Sherlock interrupted his nighttime ritual to go look for a murderer.  
 _  
Never mind. I'm going out._

_Enjoy yourself. Here if you need me._


	5. Chapter 5

Not many people were out, which was precisely the reason that Sherlock enjoyed this time of night so much. Ninety percent of the population was extraordinarily irritating and mundane. No matter how quickly he walked, it was impossible for him to tune out other people: their phone conversations on the way to work, their leisurely chats with friends sitting in front of cafes, the excitement of the tourists come to visit London for the first time. Even if he only overheard short snippets, he couldn’t help _thinking_ about them, observing and drawing conclusions. They added clutter to his brain, got in the way of his thinking at crime scenes and on errantry.

That was when John came in handy. The army doctor knew just how to deter his mind from straying down other paths and keep it on topic so he could ruthlessly tear apart the problem in front of him. He was there to guide Sherlock’s mind out of whatever rut it was stuck in, and when black moods overtook him and all he wanted was to utterly destroy something. He was there to support Sherlock when things got to be too much-- when he couldn’t filter out the right things and ended up overwhelmed by sheer over-stimulation. John was an invaluable partner, and Sherlock would be lost without him. Right now, though, he needed to lure JM out of hiding, and he couldn’t do that if John were there. JM wanted Sherlock on his own, without any kind of support. And Sherlock, frankly, relished the challenge of taking down JM on his own, without anyone’s help.

Yes. To be out in the middle of the night, on his own, surrounded by dim streetlights and darkness, was ideal right now, when he needed every iota of his considerable brainpower. Mentally, he cracked his knuckles.

As if on cue, his phone buzzed.  
 _  
I hope you’re not planning to take him down yourself. -MH_

Sherlock had long ago learned not to question how Mycroft knew everything that was going on in the world every second of every day, but it didn’t stop him from grinding his teeth in frustration.  
 _  
This is wizard’s business. Sod off. -SH_

_This man is extremely dangerous. If my people haven’t been able to bring him down yet, the chances of you doing so are slim to none. -MH_

_I specialize in slim-to-none chances. Besides, this man is a wizard. Of course you haven’t been able to bring him down._

_Sherlock, I have teams of both wizards and non-wizards at my disposal. None of them have been able to get near him._

_More of a challenge for me, then._

_At the very least bring Doctor Watson with you. If you insist on going through with this without him I shall be forced to notify Inspector Lestrade._

_If the Powers That Be haven’t seen fit to say anything to me I doubt your boyfriend will have any authorization in this matter whatsoever.  
_  
The phone remained silent for a while, and then:  
 _  
Do what you will. I have notified your partner, however. He shall be joining you shortly.  
_  
Sherlock almost howled with frustration. That damned irritating meddlesome man! Wizardry had been one of the only things that made him stand out from his brother when he was younger. Once Mycroft had found out, he’d refused to stay out of Sherlock’s business, insisting that it was best for even a low-ranking government official to stay in the know. Normally non-wizards weren’t allowed to know this much, but the elder Holmes was a special case-- or so the Senior at the time had told Sherlock. It probably had more to do with Mycroft’s “low-ranking government position”.

It had driven Sherlock up the walls, which, he suspected, gave Mycroft even more of a reason to stay involved. 

A bang similar to a car backfiring came from a deserted alleyway, and John appeared in the darkness, looking irritated, dressed in a pale yellow jumper and worn jeans. “What the hell is wrong with your brother?”

“I’ve wondered that question many times,” said Sherlock darkly. “My apologies, John. I...wanted to let you sleep.”

“You wanted to face this thing on your own like a stubborn son-of-a-bitch is more like it,” John said, grinning. “Have you got anything so far?”


End file.
